Till the End of the Age
by Tomorrow
Summary: (AU) "No God or His bastard Son can bring me peace. I have to make it for myself… and I can't. And if there were a God, people as ruthless as us Romans wouldn't rule the earth." (1xR)


AN: This was meant to be a response for the "Morning After" challenge, but as you can see, it's too late and too long. The piece turned introspective on me. However, that's the premise. I don't think I've read a piece that deals with the morning after... this particular event.

Warning: Religious content, sex, and vulgar language. I mean no offense by this piece. I'm serious. I don't. It popped into my head, and I thought it would be an interesting challenge to pursue. Again, I repeat, there is NO OFFENSE meant by this piece, and it doesn't necessarily reflect my own beliefs about certain cultures, people, or religions.

This is dedicated to Andrea, because she inspired me for this. I'm also dedicating this to Morrighan and MBF. Morrighan: you're such a faithful reader and reviewer. MBF: this is for all those beautiful spiritual fics you write... although this is not one to compare to your uplifting stories. ::shudder::

Disclaimer: I don't own _Gundam Wing_. After you read this, you'll be glad.

A shiver ravages my spine. I can feel it scurry from the nest of rumpled wool covers and across the cracked sheet of musty stone, like the carapace belly of a scorpion as its pinchers grab for the curious, probing whiskers of a muskrat skittering over the sand dunes, while its armored tail drips with a venom that seizes my veins and makes the skin of my back pucker and ripple. The cleft above my upper-lip tastes of salt from a thickening layer of sweat, which my tongue is incessantly drawn to lick. My throat swells, closes up. Its walls rub together with the same dry texture as the sand between my toes, just as gritty. My swallows are almost painful, even suffocating, as I find myself stifling my gag reflex with the base of my tongue and silently choke on my own spit. My limbs seem heavy, locked in place. But beneath that flesh throbs the constant beat of muscles as they pulsate-- I can almost see the vibrations, the reticular blue vessels that bulge with emotionally poisoned blood. Even a dull ache when I bend my fingers.

I narrow my eyes to focus on the bronze wash-basin near the door, but they blur the metal and reflected sheen of sunlight with voluptuous, disheveled shadows hidden in the bowl's garish carvings and deep bow. They fuck. The glint from sunbeams makes them perspire. They writhe their dark hips like prostitutes, spreading their legs over the metallic lip of the bowl. Joining then separating. Ramming and twisting, only to withdraw as distinct shapes of bronze and black again. They taunt my concentration, make me question this reality. My physical presence here. The hardness of the bench beneath me. The hot wet air that sticks to my cheeks and chin and temples, smearing droplets over my chest. This moment, these feelings… as though they were a dream. The mirages of post-coital undulations. The confusion-- My mind… wants to mask the revelation of the present moment, of what I know to truly exist… behind the anonymity of vague reminiscence. Behind the memories and euphoric sensations of last night. The burning.

It's coming from her. She's trembling, sobbing. It's finding its way to me. Affecting me, too.

Yesterday. The darkness. The quaking. The moans from that woman in blue, with wrinkles etched around her eyes and the corners of her frowning mouth, worn and sunken from sorrow. Only a mother's grief could be so wretched. The way the greasy strands of her hair blotted her tears, made them smatter like the tails of shooting stars as darkness captured the breaking land. The last, dying lights of the age.

How my servant girl fell to her knees. Ripped at her veil. Tangled dust in her hair. "Emmanuel," she cried then, just as she whimpers into the pillows now. A steady rhythm, drenched in the dissonance of reproach. A squeal of loss and desperation that echoes through those dulcet syllables. Low. Descanted with the shrill resonance of a groan.

But I needed her. She needed me.

How could I not want her?

That little Jewish girl with her ivory robes, my servant for many years now. So quiet. So obedient to me… and yet so innocently manipulative that it's a wonder I didn't dismiss her years ago.

__

…sigh…

No it isn't. I really don't have much say in the matter. Her brother's a good soldier, despite his heritage. I've found that Jewish men put too much stock in the whim of their God to be great warriors, crying to _YHWH_ when the enemy closes in. Not depending on their own strength, instead worshipping at a Temple in the midst of conquest and sharpened blades, as though its altars and pillars will chisel swords and swing maces, even brandish marble shields to defend them from us Romans. But he knows how to fight. Serves the empire without protest or an eye for a seat on the Sanhedrin. This God seems dead to him. It's just as well. _Elohim_ fed His "chosen people" to us and hasn't bothered to liberate them yet. Maybe He's lost interest in His strict, rule-hungry, holier-than-thou minions.

Or, as I've come to decide, He isn't even there.

Zechs had no where else to keep her. They have no other kin as far as I'm aware, not even distant relatives that could house her. Otherwise such a pretty girl would be betrothed and awaiting her years of domestic slavery to her husband. She'd be shackled by societal will to his side, warming his bed and filling his belly only so he could belch his dove-sucking breath on her bosom. She'd carry and bend and nurse, rearing his children so they could deafen her with their piercing, selfish screams and smudge her face with muddy sand. He'd command her to sully her hands with garment washing and fetching drinking water from the cistern, menial chores that would make her body hunch and whine. Buckling her bones and crumpling her smooth, porcelain skin.

Her hands are too soft for animal tending and bucket hauling. Too delicate for baking. They're made for caressing and stoking and brushing. For something much more primal than domesticity. And she's too intelligent for the submissive, bovine role of a Jewish wife… or any woman, for that matter. She's usually demure, bringing my food tray in silence or gathering my discarded clothes without even a glance my way. But there are times when she does speak, when she chooses to contrive. When she tries to force her _YHWH_ on me.

__

…snort…

I've learned better than to stop her--she'll just keep coming back, persistent until I relent. And then she returns to the shy little maiden that cares for my needs without complaint. Smiling with a tear dangling from the corner of her eye. A poor little girl.

What other choice did he have but to sell her into slavery for the house of Pilate? At least she'd be clothed and fed, treated like a woman rather than a sow. Her honor would be protected. Should have been protected.

Wasn't protected.

__

…hands rake through unruly brown bangs…

I shouldn't even care.

"I asked for roast pig," the centurion stated as he watched his maid kneel before him with his supper meal. The aroma of savory, baked lamb baited his nostrils, causing them to flare and convulse. His brow crinkled when he forced a squeamish gulp down into his stomach to settle it, gurgling from the disgustingly pungent whiff. He bit the insides of his cheeks to keep down his drink from earlier carousing, but he could taste the churning alcohol on his burped breath.

Spilling the silver cup full of dates, he grabbed a fig and sank his teeth into the skin, let its sweet juices quell his raging belly, tantalizing his tongue. They made a luscious, pulpy rivulet down his chin that shimmered like white wine in the starlight. She licked her lips. "I **hate** lamb."

"But **YHWH** has instructed that His People should not eat that animal, my lord. It's forbidden. Besides," she informed him while pouring lukewarm, watery gravy over the chops, "lamb sticks to your bones better."

"I'm not Jewish. I don't believe in your God or His laws." He took another healthy bite from the fig. "I'll eat whatever I want."

She wiped a trail of crimson wine off the side of his goblet with her finger. "I only wish to serve you, my lord… the best way I know how. If I displease you--"

"You do not displease me," he interrupted her while grabbing her wrist, causing her to tilt the dish and almost send his dinner toppling to the ground for the rodents to feast upon later, once everyone retired for the night and the shades were drawn. Leaving rats to their sinister, surreptitious uptopia of crumbs and leftovers. His breathing was shallow, erratic as his Prussian blue eyes devoured the gentle curve of her neck and the few wisps of blonde that the moonbeams splashed with a mist of haunting mythril, peeking through her calico veil.

****

Venus… the goddess that is said to have risen from the periwinkle breakers of the ocean, bathed in the spray of the sea and clothed in its lacey, evanescent foam.

A maelstrom pitched in her gentian eyes, crashing, roaring in the morphed, alloy surface of the plate. Drowning him. "Then… I'll take it that you agree with my food choice."

Setting the tray on a nearby table, she gave him a quick smile before bowing and turning away, not even jumping when his fist pummeled into the platter and smashed its contents across the floor and over the granite walls. A slimy glob of meat spewed over the tiles, and dates littered the cracks and dust around his sandals; while vivid, haphazard spatters of fruit dripped down the limestone beams.

"Relena!" he called after her. But she continued to walk, fingers playing with her pearl-white sash as her former smirk widened at his bellow and the jerking fist of his shadow on the adjacent column. She chuckled: he'd just wasted the only meal she was going to bring for the rest of the night… no matter how ferocious of a tantrum he threw.

But I do. With her hair as gold as the Caesarian-engraved coins her Emmanuel scattered across the Temple floor. Eyes the same intense, crystalline blue as the doves' in those wicker cages, those that her Jesus of Nazareth splintered on the ground when he overturned the tables. Lips so soft and red, like the linens he pitched against the wall, faded by the sunlight and tattered from catching on the jagged brick. Skin whiter than the sacrificial lambs the high priests slaughter for Yom Kippur.

I don't believe in God.

__

…slight chuckle…

I don't believe in gods, either. The people can worship the emperor as divine, carve his face into the money and make people prostrate with incense before his throne. The Jews can recite their Torah and perform elaborate, superficial rituals of fasting until their ribs collapse. They can celebrate their Passover and Pentecost festivals and wind their phylacteries so tightly that their blood congeals. I don't believe in that. I don't care. I'll praise Augustus if that's what I'm ordered to do. It doesn't make a difference to me, as long as they'll leave me alone and I can accomplish what I was put on this earth to do.

But I do believe in order. In purpose. Simply, I believe in the people themselves, that we all must serve a purpose and be productive in society. The only way to lead a good life is to act on our emotions, for only then can we find the meaning behind our existence. Our feelings lead us to our purpose, and to deny them only delays the inevitable. In which case, precious resources are wasted: time, food, water, air. Then other's feelings and destinies are jeopardized. For by simply being born we affect each other, since our interactions with and judgements of others are the inspiration for emotions within us. We don't make our journeys alone; other people serve as mediators in our fates. We all play the roles of sheep, goat, and shepherd at some point in our lives. Sometimes we lead, like the bold goat looking for new, wafting plains to graze. Other times we follow someone or an ideal as blindly as a pregnant ewe searching for a shady, cool patch to birth. But we're also shepherds that protect the flock, vigilant over our families and friends. Supposedly, at least.

That's why I hate to kill. That's why I hate making unnecessary enemies. Why I hate being a soldier.

Why I hate myself for what I've done to her.

__

"You're covered in blood, Lord Heero." Her eyes glittered, hand wrinkled the damask that crossed over her heart, clutching it so fiercely between her rigid fingers. Her teeth skimmed her bottom lip. And his eyes shut as he heard a gasp squelched by her throat, distantly ringing in the passages of that vocal cavern. "I know it's not my place--"

"It isn't."

The Roman warrior turned from her and raised his arm, smearing the scarlet over the back of his hand as he tried to rub the fresh stains out of his skin. He could taste the blood, now. Bitter and nauseating at once, making him grimace at the morbid flavor. There was even the tang of sweat--some his own, the rest deposited by the victim when he struggled for his life and blubbered about his innocence, kicking and punching and biting while being restrained on the dusty ground.

"You must wash. You need to cleanse yourself of the blood."

His head jerked at the quiet lilt of her voice. Watching her ready the wash-basin and untie her sash, dipping it into the water, mumbling prayers as she squeezed devout waterfalls from the garment, he swallowed the immediate, vulgar words he reserved for fellow soldiers that had made such a comment to him before. Her words reminded him of earlier days when he walked through the palace reeking of blood and the stench of mind-numbing wine tainted his breath.

"The longer I leave it there, the longer I'll remember." He slapped her hand away. "Maybe if I see the blood in the morning, I'll remember how it feels to take a man's life." He sniffed, shoving his goblet into her dripping hands. It slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor, smashing against the stone and denting the copper bow. "Maybe the wine won't comfort me so much that I can do it again."

"Maybe," Relena whispered as she picked up her rag and dipped it back into the sanctified water, wringing it out over his naked shoulder and watching the streams strangle his muscles with purifying, fluid cords, "if you let me clean the blood and you skip the drinking, you'll remember and feel better for it. At least in the morning, anyway." She hesitated a moment, with her hand hovering over his shoulder blades. "And maybe even… with yourself "

He flinched when she pressed the cloth to his skin, when her fingertips grazed the nape of his neck while unbuckling his armor for better access to his back and to keep the steel from rusting. "What would you know?"

"I know that **YHWH** says we must cleanse ourselves properly before we eat, and you must eat to live. I want you to live, master, and so I must clean you."

His hand snatched her wrist in mid-air, and he pulled her down into his lap, holding her face with his hardened, startlingly charged gaze. "I'm not Jewish. I don't care what your God wants."

"I know, my Lord Heero," she murmured with a gentle caress of his cheek with her knuckles. "But I know from the Rabbi that **YHWH** cares for you. He loves you deeply." His eyes widened. "That's what Jesus the Nazarene says about his Father. And since you don't know how to love Him…" she wiped a splotch of blood from the bridge of his nose, brushing away the reside with a swab of her thumb "… I'll love him for you."

She's been wandering off a lot lately, seeking out her Messiah to listen to his parables and witness his miracles. A mustard seed is the Kingdom of God, now. Prodigal children are rewarded for being asses and gorging themselves on the fattened calf. Meanwhile, a Samaritan is paying for a wounded victim to be kept at an inn. Heirs of vineyards are being murdered, while a King of Kings separates lambs from goats. He heals the blind with a dramatic prayer and some mud, cures the lame by letting them touch his cloak. His philosophy is so inspiring that the dumb finally find something to say, and the lepers can shed their warning bells. He even commands rotting corpses to abandon their tombs and walk amongst the living, trailing their sepulchral wrappings behind them and moaning with the rank breath of resurrection.

He's the one, she claims, the one prophesied by Isaiah. "The Suffering Servant," I heard her call him, once, while she strapped my sandals. She talks to anyone who mutters his name with a smile; her words slur she becomes so animated while conversing about the Son of her God. I know she wants to learn more from him, takes his teachings to heart.

What can I say? He preaches about a heaven that doesn't exist. He tells people about utopia and peace, something we all want but don't deserve and will never have. No God or His bastard Son can bring me peace. I have to make it for myself… and I can't. I fight, but more battalions just keep flanking over the horizon. Even in my dreams I can see the plumes of the stallions whip over the tips of the terracotta dunes, have to cover my eyes from the glint of shields at sunset. Feel steel rip through my flesh and hear the warriors' battle cry. More scars. More training. More orders. More innocent people dying.

If there were a God, people as ruthless as us Romans wouldn't rule the earth.

But I followed her every time she sneaked away. I feel responsible for her, somehow, and so I tailed her to the places where the Nazarene spoke: synagogues, the Temple, homes of tax collectors, a wedding in Cana, Gethsemani. He seemed harmless enough, wandering around the city with his twelve apostles--

Eleven now.

__

…teeth grit…

If there's one thing this Messiah and I have in common, it's our loathing of betrayal. One of his men handed him over to the court for a few lousy pieces of silver, as if the life of a man, much less a God, could really be priced. Well, apparently Iscariot's was only worth a small pouch full of coins, not even gold ones, because he hung himself not long after the arrest. The man didn't even let himself reap the spoils of his mission, let the ink of his signature dry on his edict to hell. Stupid ass.

If there's any truth to Jesus' stories, then that traitor's damned to Gehenna where he belongs. He found his purpose… and I pity him for it.

When I heard of the betrayal, I couldn't help but think of my own men, how I would react if one of my soldiers handed me over to the enemy. Especially with something as intimate as a kiss. Their lives are constantly in my hands, and I protect them with my own. With my own blood, sweat, muscles, and cunning. To think that they might not reciprocate that--

__

…growl…

Damn him. Damn Iscariot. Damn me for even knowing as much about the Nazarene as I do. It's not my concern.

__

…sigh…

It's her fault. She's done this to me. Her tears and touches and devious little speeches made with those warm, seductive lips. They've ruined me.

Damn you, Relena. Damn yesterday, when you marched with the crowd to Calvary. Fuck how you cried when they crowned him with that bushel of thorns, gasping every time a new puncture was made in his forehead and drooled bloodied sweat and snot down his face. How you bore your fingers into your cheeks when he fell those three times. Fuck how you groveled on your knees before me, kissing my toes and smearing your tears along my ankle to leave silted grime. How your eyes pleaded with me, begged me to help him carry that cross. Wailed that I should help him escape.

"Don't kill my Lord!" you shrieked into my shin. "Don't kill **our **Lord!"

Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it all, Relena.

…quivering…

Pilate condemned him, Relena. There was nothing I could do for you; I was following orders, serving my purpose. I could only recruit that Cyrenian man from the crowd to bear the cross with him. That's all I could do.

And the groan that tore from your throat, made your entire body spasm when I refused to stop them, that threw you shivering to the sand-- I felt something in my chest burst. Felt the whole world tremble. Was left with nothing but the sudden, overwhelming weight of my body. So heavy… so, so heavy.

It was too heavy. Fuck you, it was so damn, fucking heavy.

When he died… there was a coldness in the air like I'd never felt. A silence so stagnant that I had to put my palm on my chest to make sure it still fluctuated with the breath I couldn't seem to guzzle quickly enough, assure that my heart was still pounding between my ribs, that it hadn't died with the rabid braying of the donkeys or the laughter of my fellow centurions. With the pressing of my fingers against the breastplate, a sudden chill riveted up my spine like the one only a few moments ago.

But I'd never felt fear before.

I've never been afraid, never even hesitant. And so when it lathered my back in sweat and convulsions and guttural squeals, it brought me to my knees before that cross and the King of the Jews. Made me whimper when the darkness came and the earth shook from God's fury and parental, bittersweet pain.

I was the one that helped take him down from the wood. I've done it before, and I usually just tug until the nails give way, not even paying attention to the dislocated shoulders and flopping head. The criminal's dead-- What does it matter? But this time I meticulously pried the spikes from his hands and feet, blotting away the blood with the leather strips of my kilt. I cradled his head against my chest, let the crown of thorns scratch and clang against my armor. Like the rumors of Mary and her manger, I even swaddled his broken legs in my arms. Looked at that face.

His face… his face… that dreadful… face…

I was wrong. Helping them crucify that innocent man was wrong. I needed comfort… someone--

The other commanders often mock me because I frequent brothels after I kill, having my way with whores until the sensual, sinful pain of my copulation overrides the emotional stabbing in my breast. I'll sometimes blow a whole week's pay in one night; fuck, after fuck, after fuck of violent moaning, scratching, and grinding with my hips and mouth. It depends on how many I killed and how brutally I had to do it. They wonder why I bother to fuck women when I could have a few men if wanted. At least then I wouldn't be supplicating to the weaker sex.

A couple good screws with a prostitute wouldn't do it this time, though. I needed the heat of her eyes scorching through my scarred flesh and charring my bones to limp, brittle ash. Craved those fragile arms and soft fingers through my hair and on my body. I needed to feel alive and useful, important like I was serving my purpose.

I needed her… and I had her.

She resisted me at first, but she forfeited her virginity soon enough. When I tied her sash around her hands and pinned her between my thighs. I'd never had a virgin before. Never had apprehensive, trembling hands stroking me so exquisitely, as though I were someone that mattered. A child of her God. Her lips, swollen from my assualt… how they whispered that they loved me.

"Emmanuel… Emmanuel, forgive me…" she sobbed into the crook of my neck, amidst kisses and halted grunts. The numbing friction that severed us from our memories of that day, stranded us in corporeal oblivion. She didn't want it, but she needed it.

She's still repeating it now, his name. Sorry… so, so sorry.

I don't know if I believe in God or His Son… but I do believe in her.

I love you. Fuck me, Relena, I love you.

__

What have I done?


End file.
